


waving from a train I wanted to be on

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Anger, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Grief/Grieving, Hurt/Comfort But Mostly Hurt, M/M, References to Major Character Death, not a fix-it fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 09:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20673158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: “Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, "It might have been.”―Kurt VonnegutAfter Eddie's death, Richie confronts Beverly.





	waving from a train I wanted to be on

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again with some SADNESS y'all. This came to me because Pip finally watched chapter 1, and something we were talking about just struck me. 
> 
> big thanks to Hannah for beta'ing, as always!! 
> 
> enjoy!

The thought comes to him two nights after they defeat Pennywise—two nights after Eddie dies, and they leave him behind. The thought comes to Richie and wakes him up in a cold sweat. They’re all still in the Derry Townhouse, but Bill is heading home tomorrow and Ben and Beverly will be leaving the day after. Mike is staying and Richie doesn’t know what the fuck he’s going to do. The thought comes to him and he feels sick with the realization. He detours to his attached bathroom and crashes against the toilet bowl, retching. By the time he stands again, his head is aching and his mouth tastes vile and he can only think of one thing—

_Beverly had to know_. 

He staggers to his feet and out of his bedroom. He can’t see—left his glasses on his bedside table, and the whole townhouse is dark—but he makes it down the hall without tripping over anything or tumbling down the stairs. He stumbles three doors down from his room and knocks, loud and uncaring. He doesn’t even know what time it is.

Doesn’t matter, because Beverly answers right away, wrapped in a silky nightgown. Richie peers into the room and notes that Ben isn’t around, and judging by the flushed glare Beverly gives him, she knows exactly what he was looking for. 

“What do you want, Richie?” She asks in a gentle but exhausted voice. 

“We need to talk.”

Beverly’s eyes widen slightly, but she takes a step back, then another, until Richie can slip into her room. After a moment, she shuts the door behind him. “Okay,” she says. “So talk.”

Richie doesn’t bother beating around the bush. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

“What?” Beverly steps closer, voice full of concern. 

“You saw Eddie die.” 

A stillness falls over the room. Beverly freezes, one foot out as if to get closer still. Her breathing has stopped too—and so has Richie’s. Now that the words are out, he feels like they might choke him. Beverly stares at him with wide eyes and a trembling lower lip. 

“What?” She asks in a hush. 

“You saw Eddie die,” Richie repeats. “You said you saw how all of us died, like Stan in the bathtub.”

“Richie…”

“So you saw Eddie die, and you didn’t do anything to stop it!” Richie can hear his own voice getting louder but it’s nearly drowned out by the ringing in his ears. His heart is thudding so hard he thinks it might burst from his chest and onto the floor. “You knew what would happen and you didn’t do anything to stop it.”

“Richie, that’s not how it works.” Beverly’s voice is fucking _achingly_ gentle. Richie can’t handle it.

“Then tell me how it works, Bev!” Richie’s shouting, the other Loser will almost definitely hear him soon, and he just doesn’t fucking _care_. “Tell me how it fucking works because you _said_ you saw all of us die, and you were right about Stan, so why the _fuck_ couldn’t we save Eddie?” Richie’s legs have started shaking and he trips over to a chair in the corner and falls into it. “Why couldn’t we fucking save Eddie?” 

Richie hangs his head and hides his face in his hands. “Why couldn’t I save Eddie, Bev?” 

He startles when he feels hands on him, but it’s just Beverly. She’s kneeling beside him and reaching for him and pulling him into a hug. Like the quarry, she pulls him close and lets him tuck his face against her neck. He whimpers and clings to her; she strokes his hair and presses her dry lips to his forehead.

Soon enough, he can hear the thud of footsteps—Ben, Bill, and Mike all rushing to Bev’s room. Bill asks, “Wh-what happened?” but doesn’t wait for an answer before coming to wrap his arms around Richie, too. Mike and Ben do the same, and it’s a tight squeeze with the chair but they make it work. Eight hands on him, so fucking gentle and kind, and all Richie can feel deep in his chest is the sharp sense of failure.

“Why couldn’t I save him?” Richie gasps out again, voice hoarse. His eyes hurt from so much crying. His throat is raw. 

“I don’t know, Richie,” Mike murmurs. 

Richie sobs. 

They sit there for a while. Eventually, Richie slides out of the chair and they end up in a pile on the floor. He’s cradled between the four of them and feels impossibly small. He felt small watching the claw going through Eddie’s chest, too, but this is different. It’s better, even if his heart still throbs painfully. 

“Richie,” Beverly starts quietly. “I didn’t know Eddie would die that way.” She swallows, an audible gulp in the still silence of the room. “When I was in the Deadlights, I saw _all_ of us die, because we never defeated It. I saw It get every one of us in some way or another...Stan’s death was the only one that happened how I saw it. The rest were different.”

Richie’s thoughts are foggy with sadness and his head still hurts hard enough to make him sick, but he takes in Beverly’s words. Awed, and bitter, he says, “We changed history.”

She nods, something he only knows because he feels her curls bounce against his cheek. “I don’t know how or when or what, but something we did changed the future. At some point, what I saw in the Deadlights...stopped being true.” 

Richie closes his eyes. Tears are welling up in his eyes again and his throat clicks with sobs yet to be broken. “I’m sorry, Bev,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

“Yeah you did,” she counters. “But it’s okay. I understand.” She kisses his forehead again. 

“I just…” Richie shakes his head. “I should’ve fucking told him, told him everything. I’m so stupid...I just fucking miss him, guys.”

None of the Losers say anything, because there’s nothing left to be said. They all miss him, too.

Richie crouches in front of the kissing bridge and admires his handiwork. _R+E_. 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, eyes trained on the crookedly carved _E_. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, Eds.”

No one says _“Don’t call me that,”_ and the silence makes Richie bite his tongue. 

“I loved you. Fuck, I _still_ love you.” He traces the carving with his finger, wincing slightly when his fingertip catches on a jagged piece of wood. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was just scared.”

He wipes furiously at his eyes. “You’d probably call me an idiot, huh? For waiting so long?” He looks down and nods. “You’d be right. And I’m…” It hurts to say _sorry_ again. So he doesn’t. He is sorry, but Eddie wouldn’t want him to be. Eddie’s last words were _“I fucked your mother.”_ Eddie would want Richie to be happy, and to move on, and to stop being scared. 

He doesn’t say sorry. Instead, he says—

“I love you, Eds. Always will.” 

Eyes wet, heart aching, Richie leans back and smiles. 

**Author's Note:**

> [reblog this on tumblr, if you want!](https://punk-rock-yuppie.tumblr.com/post/187771572056/waving-from-a-train-i-wanted-to-be-on-reddie)


End file.
